


Black Moleskine

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-powered AU, Round 9, Skinny!Steve, Tumblr: 890fifth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a notebook on Tony's table and it's sure as hell not supposed to be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Moleskine

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/109385652056/black-moleskine) for 890fifth.

There’s a black Moleskine on the table, and this wouldn’t be so damn problematic if it weren’t _his_ table, but it is _his_ table and it should be spotless and free for his personal use. He doesn’t want to think about the dozens, possibly hundreds of other patrons who’ve sat at this table throughout the day, drinking their overpriced coffee and eating their 500 calorie biscotti and using _his_ table. All he wants, like clock work, is to arrive at his table at 11:45 PM so he can program in peace, far from the labs and bustle and Obie constantly breathing over his shoulder. But there’s a fucking black Moleskine on his table, and it seems that no matter how hard he glares, it’s not going to spontaneously burst into flame.

Tony settles with a huff, bringing his coffee to his nose so he can inhale the dark, bitter scent, let it wash over and through him, calm him. It’s not the worst the table’s ever been. There was that one night he showed up just in time to see a drunken frat boy blow chunks all over the place. He hadn’t gotten even a single line of code done that night. Compared to a disaster like that, a little Moleskine is nothing. Tony taps the edge of it, debating whether he should bring it over to the shop clerk or leave it to clutter his space, to take up precious brain processing that could be used for genius, for creation. He should turn it in. Really he should. But a little curiosity never hurt anybody.

The first few pages are covered with perspective studies, brownstones on Beacon Hill, rounded facades from the South End, the church in Copley Square. The shapes are rough, unfinished, delicate as lace, but there’s something about the angles, something that says, “This town is wicked tough and don’t you fahkin’ fahget it.”

Then come anatomy studies, models of every shape and size, rendered with that same ethereal grace, limbs raised to beckon or curled in to protect, faces looking up with hurt and hesitation or outright defiance. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground in the artist’s mind.

And then the comic starts. Tony doesn’t mean to look. He really only meant to take a peek and then turn the Moleskine in at the counter, wash his hands of the whole thing, but now he’s hooked, drawn in by spider silk pencil and oil slick ink. It opens with the quote “Shoot for the moon. Even if you’ll miss, you’ll land among the stars” rendered lovingly in looping calligraphy. There’s a boy in a hospital bed, sickly and small. Through the door he’s watching his mama, hearing every third word as the doctor says things the boy barely understands, things like “lymphocytes” and “immunodeficiency” and “life-long symptoms.”

Night falls and the boy is alone, sleepless and staring out the window at a city skyline. New York, Tony thinks. A figure appears in the window then, wreathed in black, eyes glowing from beneath a deep hood. “Are you here to take me to heaven?” the boy asks, his face curious rather than frightened, as though Death’s appearance is merely a hiccup in an otherwise ordinary day. But then Death laughs and throws off his hood and it’s not death at all, but rather a young man in a domino mask.

“Hardly. I’m here because you’ve been chosen for something amazing, something you never dreamed of.”

The man extends a metal hand, gleaming in the starlight, and opens it palm up. “Are you brave enough to take a leap of faith?” he says, smiling gently.

The boy crawls from his bed and approaches the window, looks down at the hand and then back up at the man’s face. “Will it hurt?”

“Probably,” the man says, robe flowing gracefully around him, “but then, sometimes we learn a lot from pain. Enough to make us better people.”

The boy’s mouth firms a little and he places his bony fingers on the sleek metal. Together they rise through the window, up past sky scrapers and antenna and through the clouds until a sea of clouds gives way to an endless expanse of stars.

And then the comic ends. The pages after are blank and Tony nearly throws his coffee at the wall because that can’t, _can’t_ be the end. Surely the artist planned more. Tony wants more. He wants to know if the boy died or if this is only the beginning. Is the boy going to become a masked vigilante (unlikely) or a guardian angel (more plausible) or is he going to go on some great adventure only to wake in his bed in the morning (a la Sendak)?

In a huff, Tony opens the Moleskine to the beginning again and checks for a name, but there’s only blank paper. He checks the back as well just to be safe, but finds nothing save a few stray cat hairs.

He flips through the comic again, fingers tracing the lines, memorizing the neatly rendered dialog. For some reason this story feels terribly important, like a secret overheard or a deeper truth learned for the first time. He wants to protect it.

Tony turns his gaze to his laptop, unopened and probably useless to him tonight. He’ll never be able to code now, not with the wrinkles of his brain saturated with mysterious black figures and metal hands, little boys with beeping heart monitors and the vast expanse of the night sky. He glances up at the clock, sees that it’s nearly 1 AM, and considers packing up and heading home, Moleskine tucked under his arm where he can keep it safe and sound to ponder and agonize over.

The bell on the shop door rings, followed by pounding footsteps. Tony turns to look because almost nobody comes in at this time of night. A young man, probably a college student, comes running up to the table, hair flyaway and breath wheezing in his throat.

“Oh…thank god…” he pants, hunching over and placing his hands on his knees. “It’s…still here…”

Tony follows his gaze down to the Moleskine and then back up again. “Yours?” he asks, brandishing the sketchbook and thinking, plotting at the speed of light.

The other man nods, head drooping down between his shoulders as he tries to catch his breath. Tony puts on his most solicitous smile, the one he uses when he’s trying to sweet talk Obie into letting him have the lab to himself. “Here, sit down. You look like you’ve had a shock. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

He places a hand on the man’s shoulder, and ushers him to the other chair at the table. The blonde goes down without a fight, and slumps until his forehead is on the Formica, shoulders rising and falling in great heaves. Tony rises to get the coffee, careful to take the Moleskine with him. This fish isn’t getting away that easily.

By the time he gets back with a steaming cup of cafe latte, his mysterious artist is sitting up, watching Tony with apprehension and suspicion. “You didn’t have to…”

“Oh yes, I did,” Tony says, settling into his seat and leaning back like he owns the place. “You see, I’m expecting a little gratuity for my generosity…” He let’s a questioning tone hang, looking the narrow man over. The blonde frowns and crosses his arms, white shirt flashing through a hole in the busted out elbow of his jacket.

“Steve,” he grits out after a moment, brows drawing down in a thunderous expression. “What kind of payment are we talking here? I don’t exactly have a lot of cash…”

“Tony. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He leans forward in his chair then, and brandishes the Moleskine, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “What I want…”

Steve grimaces, hunching in as though he’s expecting a punch to the shoulder.

“…is to know how it ends.”

“I…beg your pardon?” Steve straightens a little, eyes darting between the Moleskine and Tony’s face.

“You heard me. The comic. I need to know how it ends. Don’t tell me you went and killed off Tiny Tim and decided enough was enough. I named him Tim by the way. Hope you don’t mind.”

“You…want to know how it ends?”

“Did I stutter?”

A smile is growing on Steve’s face now, a slow thing that starts at the corners of his mouth and grows to encompass his eyes, crinkling them until the blue of his irises seems to be the only thing that shines through.

“It’s a long story,” he says after a moment, reaching out to sip at his hot coffee.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got plenty of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more fanfiction and nerdery you can find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/).


End file.
